


The Raiders March

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Adult!Jo, All in all an excessively polite and yet Vulcan-inappropriate romance, Archaeologist!Jo, Bones is a Cool!Dad, Bones is a Panicked!Dad, Childhood Memories, Cults, Good Thing He Has Spock, Helping Anxious People Problem-Solve is Sexy, Kidnapping, M/M, Sleepy Handholding, everything works out, it's not very effective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:06:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: Considering the decidedly cautious nature of one Dr. Leonard McCoy, it's something of a surprise to discover his daughter is not quite so prudent, and is occasionally in need of rescuing.





	The Raiders March

**Author's Note:**

> A piece written for the 2019 Star Trek Reverse Big Bang, for tumblr user @ animetrashmuffin.tumblr.com's piece Touch Telepath. I would specifically like to thank them for letting me go absolutely off the rails and do some back flips while I was at it. They're a really neat humanoid.
> 
> Title from the Indiana Jones Soundtrack.

 

It’s not very hard to find Midge Hartley in a crowd. Twenty-seven years old and standing at six feet and eleven inches, she towers over the Vulcans, Orions, Andorians, and other Humans that make up the bulk of this colony’s population. He spots her within moments of stepping into the little cafe where they’re meant to meet, her wild, white-blonde hair an eyesore amongst the dark heads of the cafe’s mostly-Vulcan customers.

 

“Midge,” he greets, pitching his voice low and warm as he approaches her table. “It’s been a while.”

 

Midge gives him a strained but genuine smile, accepting a hug and a kiss to her temple.

 

“Hi, Doctor Leo,” she says as he pulls away. “How are you?”

 

“Happy as a pig in shit, now that I’ve got both feet firmly planted on the ground,” he says, grinning. “And how about yourself? The last I heard from Jo, she’d sounded pretty certain you two’d be staying on Vulcan for the rest of your lives, if she could swing it.”

 

“It looked that way, yes,” Midge agrees. Her tone isn’t quite right, though— it takes Leonard a moment to grasp what it is he hears.

 

Immediately, his smile drops.

 

“Midge, what’s happened?” he asks, leaning forward. “Are you alright? Where’s Jo?”

 

_ Stress-fear-hurt-hope _ flashes across Midge’s face all at once before smoothing away again, and now that Leonard knows he’s should be looking for it, he sees it when Midge’s hands disappear under the table, where Leonard knows she’s already hidden a handful of tissues to twist and tear. To anyone watching who hasn’t known the girl since diapers, she must seem so very composed.

 

“People came to her with a job,” Midge says, her voice steady. “That kind of job you don’t like her working.” She reaches out, her fingers curving absently around her teacup. “She took it. I think she had to. She didn’t tell me what it was, but… she didn’t invite me.”

 

Leonard hums, leaning over to peer into the over-designed teapot. He breathes in deeply, and when he recognizes it as one of the sweeter tears Spock prefers, he pours himself a cup and takes a sip, making a face at the strange, spicy burn that accompanies the sweetness. He’d prefer coffee, but judging by the clientele, he gets the feeling he’s not going to be finding Americana on their menu, so he keeps quiet, focusing instead on Midge.

 

“Midge, you know how Jo is,” he says, setting his cup aside. “She gets so caught up in things she forgets basics, sometimes. You know she didn’t mean it.”

 

Midge shakes her head.

 

“She _ did  _ mean it, though,” she says. “She didn’t want me to come— she wanted me to find you, instead.” Midge reaches into the breast pocket of her coat, pulling out a plain, gray envelope the size of a baking sheet. Leonard can see his information inked beautifully across the front in shiny silver ink— his title, name, rank, serial number, and ship all written out in thick, loopy letters.

 

Midge holds it out for him to take, so he does.

 

“She asked me to deliver it in person,” Midge says, and there’s an undercurrent of bitterness there when she says. “She _ sent me away.” _

 

“Now, Midge…”

 

“It’s true,” Midge says. “She told me to deliver this one in person— I’ve been following the Enterprise for three months. She _ knows  _ how I am about directions, Doctor Leo— she wouldn’t have told me to do it unless she wanted me gone.”

 

“Or, she had another reason, and she just hasn’t told you yet,” Leonard says. “Though I can’t begin to guess what it is— I thought Mount Seleya was going to be the one, for her.”

 

“That’s the thing, I thought so, too,” Midge says. “She’d been acting like it— was looking into permanent accomodations and everything. But then someone asked to have a meeting with her about a job, and now she hasn’t called me since she left.” She shakes her head. “She’s angry with me, but I don’t know why.”

 

Leonard feels himself go cold.

 

“It’s been how long since she called you?”

 

“Three months, eleven days.” Midge swallows. “It’s starting to scare me, a little bit. Normally she’s good about calling me when we’re apart— _ but,  _ I guess if she’s digging somewhere shady again, she wouldn’t be able to, but…” She trails off, sighing. “I thought maybe you could tell me what I did, Doctor Leo. Have you talked to her?” 

 

“No,” Leonard says numbly, staring at the envelope in his hands. “No, I haven’t talked to her since… since her birthday, probably.”

 

That’s… he’s been busy, these past few months. He was busy, and even if he thought it was a little strange that Jo hadn’t called, well, she gets busy, too, and it isn’t exactly unusual for her to drop all contact in favor of work that’s less-than legal.

 

Leonard made his peace with the nature of his daughter’s passions years ago— or, at least, he’s managed to swallow back the fear that creeps up his spine every time he receives another letter informing him she’ll be entering Klingon space or boarding a ship piloted by the Orion Syndicate. But before, at least, he always knew she had Midge. She always had Midge.

 

Except, right now, Midge is sitting across from him at a cramped little table in a cafe on a middle of nowhere planet colony, and Jo… Jo has apparently gone out on her own, to start digging for God knows.

 

“Where are you staying, Midge?” Leonard asks, his fingers finding the flap of the envelope.

 

“In the Guest House around the corner, why?”

 

Leonard pushes himself to his feet.

 

“I’m going to go read this,” he says. “And then I’ll come find you. I’ll get to the bottom of this, Midge, don’t you worry.”

 

Midge nods, mouth pinched in an unhappy, red line.

 

“Okay, Doctor Leo,” she says, voice small. “Thanks.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Jo has always had trouble with words, an interesting aspect of her neurodivergence that still leaves Leonard with his head spinning sometimes. The problem isn’t communication, necessarily— she can communicate just fine, if given enough time and thought and a role to play— but her scholarly fascinations have left her father in the dust, and they both know it.

 

Her letter, like all of her letters, is mostly pictures. The perfect strokes of shiny black ink that make up her actual letter fills only a quarter of the page, the rest of it dominated by the familiar, colorful scribbles that no doubt fill most of her notebooks.

 

She’d been inspired by old psalm books dating back to the Middle Ages of Earth—  _ illuminated manuscripts, _ she’d called them when she’d explained her first letter. It made certain things easier to talk about, giving shape to feelings she never learned how to put into words.

 

When it comes to his daughter, Leonard doesn’t need to read between the lines to figure out if she’s happy or nervous or angry— he just needs to pay attention to the pictures.

 

That being said, he does read what she wrote.

  
  


_ Daddy! _

 

_ I’ve been recruited for a new dig. The people who’ve invited me along are absolute maniacs, and it’s wonderful! I haven’t had someone so invested in a project in a long time, and I can’t help but think this is going to be one of the most marvelous sites I’ll ever visit. Mum’s the word on the location for now, but from what I can tell, the planet’s habitable, so that’s a relief. It’s always such a pain in the neck to work in full gear, you know? _

 

_ I sent Midge along to hand you this in person to give her a bit of a break. She always gets antsy when we aren’t near ‘proper’ civilization, and while my new sponsors promise me that we’ll only be a hop, skip, and jump away from Vulcan, I get the feeling I’ll be getting far too distracted by my work to remember to take time off for the both of us. After all, you know how Midge is— she hates to interrupt me when I’m in the middle of something. _

 

_ I was hoping that you’d keep her company on her trip home, if you could take the time off. She hates traveling alone, and I know she’s going to be a nervous wreck by the time she catches up to you. Having a doctor on board would certainly make things easier, for her sake as well as the sake of the other passengers onboard. _

 

_ We’ll talk soon, hopefully. Maybe even in person. _

 

_ I love you, _

_ Jo _

  
  


She’s a little more articulate than usual, Leonard realizes as he reads once, than twice. More formal, if that’s the right word to use when describing her complete inability not to tease him with obscure pop culture references. Clearly, she had some sort of standard she was attempting to meet when she wrote this. Possibly a standard not of her own choosing.

 

It’s time to look at the artwork.

 

The first thing he notices are the lemon blossoms. She uses them in every letter she sends him, to draw his attention to the more important bits of each piece.

 

This letter is positively _ covered  _ in them. They border each separate section of the art, poking between each scene and blooming thickly around her words, along with a handful of bluish-purple petals and long stems of pink flowers.

 

Leonard must admit, his memory of Victorian flower language— and in fact flowers— is a bit less practiced than Jo’s. Luckily, he has the same file she does on the subject, so it can at least be handled quickly.

 

The left-hand margin of Jo’s letter isn’t as difficult as the flowers. She likes to draw pillars to fill empty space, looping them with pink and blue ribbons before blocking out in careful, square letters along the ribbons’ curves, exactly what sort of music she thinks her father ought to listen to. There are flowers there, too, more lemon blossoms and the ones with the purple-blue petals.

 

The pillar stretches up above her written words and stretches sideways, setting the scene of a battle. A lion roars from the left of the page at a woman in white, backed by a rusty red planet that can’t be anything but Vulcan. The lion and the woman, at least, Leonard understands. Why Vulcan’s involved, he has no idea.

 

To the right of her words is a strange, elongated figure in white accompanied by a dome-headed blue droid. The woman’s hairstyle is one that Leonard remembers fondly— he’d done Jo’s hair in a similar style at her request on many occasions, when she was still small enough to want her Daddy to do her hair.

 

Seeing it now makes his stomach drop.

 

The last notable piece of the letter is strung across the bottom, and its… its _ wrongness _ is what really gets him— three Elves, nine Men, and seven Dwarves.

 

That’s not how the line goes.

 

Jo knows better than anyone else.

 

The lemon blossoms thicken around the Nine, white clashing with black, and when Leonard runs his thumb across the edges of their robes, he finds lines of paint that move in the opposite direction of the natural flow of their cloaks.

 

“Lights off,” he says.

 

His office goes dark immediately, leaving him in absolute blackness except for… well.

 

“Shit,” he mutters, the ghostly faces of the Kings of Men glowing eerily up at him. Across the page, dots of paint glow with the same dull intensity of faraway stars, creating a pattern that Leonard has been forced to learn quite intimately over the past few years.

 

“Lights on,” he says, and the stars disappear in the flood of artificial light. He hardly even blinks away the spots in his sight before he’s moving towards his computer.

 

“Bring up _ ‘Flowers of Victorian Romance,’” _ he orders. “And put in a leave request, starting now.”

 

“File loading,” the computer chirps. “Duration of leave?”

 

“Undetermined,” Leonard says flatly. “Submit request.”

 

“Request submitted.”

 

“Fantastic,” he mutter. “Now, I’m looking for blue flowers with white centers— on the petal, not the actual center.”

 

“Three matches available.”

 

“Great, pull them up.”

 

As the screen whirs to life, Leonard mentally calculates what his chances are at slipping away before Jim can personally track him down. After all, he sent that leave request to Spock, and he’s not the sort to ask questions regarding impulsive, emotional, Human acts.

 

Right?

  
  


*.*

  
  


The fact is, people insist on having sexual intercourse, and on shore leave, it is often in an unsafe manner.

 

Spock has learned in his time since joining Starfleet that he must live with certain things, and the knowledge of exactly who is potentially threatening to infect half the crew with the Orion Pox is one of those things.

 

He and the engineers on transporter duty have something of an understanding. They report to him the illicit comings and goings of crewmembers and their ‘friends from home,’ and Spock keeps the exact location of Scotty’s Still  _ off  _ the record. His thoughtfulness regarding the matter has given Doctor McCoy no end of amusement, as far as he can tell— though whether its the ability to frighten unsuspecting crewmen with his seeming omnipotence regarding their sexual practices or the idea that Spock is burdened with the same knowledge that fuels his good cheer, Spock cannot begin to guess.

 

(For once, Spock does not mind the uncertainty. Whatever the reasoning, when Spock gives the Doctor his regular report on the subject, whatever prickliness he has learned to expect of the man gives way to a devilish grin that Spock has yet to see in a situation other than the one he described.

 

… But, he appears to have gotten off-topic.)

 

Doctor McCoy, better than anyone else except for perhaps Spock himself, is aware of these precautions. He knows very well that the engineers on duty would take one look at his unusually early return and message Spock immediately. He also knows that submitting a leave request to Spock as opposed to the Captain would raise certain questions, and while Spock cannot deny the man his leave, he can certainly ask for explanation.

 

Spock waits until the Captain seems reasonably well-occupied with an in-depth conversation regarding a facet of Andorian politics that Spock is not particularly familiar with before slipping away. Jim will worry if Spock tells him of the Doctor’s sudden and strange behavior, and that… would not be ideal. The Captain needs his rest, too, and concern over a friend where it might perhaps not be needed will only hinder him.

 

So, he leaves quietly, unobtrusively, and without a word.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Doctor McCoy.”

 

Doctor McCoy startles, badly.

 

“Jesus Christ, Spock, what the hell are you doing creeping up on a guy like that?” he says, clutching at his chest dramatically as he catches his breath.

 

Spock sees it for the distraction it is, noting how the Doctor leans himself carefully against the biobed, arms spread and shoulders squared to block as much of whatever it is he has laid out across its surface from Spock’s sight.

 

“I apologize, Doctor,” Spock says. “I did not make the proper allowances necessary to compensate for your lack of awareness.”

 

The Doctor scowls, but does not retort, which in and of itself is unusual enough to give Spock pause; Doctor McCoy is not one to take an insult lying down.

 

“What do you want, Spock?” he asks instead. He is trying to take control of the conversation, a tactic the Captain often employs when he is feeling particularly secretive.

 

Spock decides it will be best to handle the conversation in the same manner he has handled past, similar conversations with Jim.

 

“I simply wished to inquire as to the nature of your sudden decision to take leave,” Spock says. “Are you ill, Doctor McCoy?”

 

“What, an old man can’t take a vacation when it suits him?” The Doctor snorts. “I’d think you’d be happy to hear I’m thinking of taking some time off.”

 

Spock nods thoughtfully.

 

“Indeed, Doctor, I imagine I would enjoy the quiet left in the wake of your absence greatly, were I not a Vulcan,” he agrees, an allowance meant to ease the strange, nervous energy that seems to buzz just under the Doctor’s skin. “But, unfortunately, I have evidence that may prove your sudden need for leave to be the result of some sort of aggravation, and therefore I feel an obligation to ask— Doctor, is someone forcing you to leave the ship?”

 

“What? No, of course not.” Doctor McCoy shakes his head. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with, Mister Spock, but thank you _ very  _ kindly for worrying about me.”

 

Now, Spock might still have trouble reading the complexities of the irregular, secondary language of Human facial expressions, but he understands mockery well enough. The smile the Doctor gives him is a cruel one, more anger than anything else, and something in Spock’s side pulses uncomfortably.

 

He adjusts his posture, straightening his spine further.

 

“I apologize for disturbing you, Doctor,” he says, careful to keep the flash of vindictive pleasure he feels when the Doctor winces at his cool words. “Tell me, how will Medical cover your shifts for the duration of your vacation?”

 

Doctor McCoy freezes, his brow furrowing unhappily.

 

“I… I’ll have to rearrange the schedule,” he says after a moment.

 

Spock nods.

 

“I suggest you remain for one last shift, if it is at all possible,” he says. “And draft a reasonable schedule to make up for your absence until an interim Chief Medical Officer can be found.”

 

Leonard feels his throat tighten. He nods sharply.

 

“I can do that.”

 

“I would prefer if you delivered it to me in person, please.”

 

Goddammit.

 

“Yes, fine.”

 

Leonard glares at Spock’s back until the door shuts behind him. Only then does he let his arms drop.

 

“Computer,” he says. “Lock the doors. And call Midge Hartley, please. I’m going to need a ship.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


There’s a small problem with Leonard’s plan to slip away into the night, and of course, the problem is thanks to none other than the damnable hobgoblin that he calls his first officer. 

 

Spock is due for his booster shot. Specifically, the booster that, if not correctly administered to exactly the right spot on a specific nerve, can kill him. Leonard, because he is, unfortunately, an overachiever, made sure to learn how to administer said vaccination the moment he was informed that he would be having a Vulcan— more importantly, a  _ half _ -Vulcan— on his ship and in his care.

 

Now, normally Leonard wouldn’t worry about it, because it’s M’Benga’s job, anyway, as the Vulcan specialist onboard. But the problem is, M’Benga’s attending a conference on the other side of the planet, and if they wait too long to administer the booster, Spock will get very, very ill, and if Spock is sick, he can’t keep an eye on Jim while Leonard is gone.

 

God damn the Vulcans and their biology, something that has only grown increasingly awkward for Leonard to manage on his own— which is exactly the reason they brought M’Benga on, by the way.

 

Goddammit. Leonard has been saddled with some of the most inconvenient bastards in the world.

 

Himself included.

  
  


*.*

  
  


If Spock were Human, he might have found himself hopeful when he read Doctor McCoy’s message asking for his immediate presence in the Medical Bay. He might have expected an explanation, an apology, even, and moved forward with the knowledge that they understand each other just a little bit better.

 

Spock is not Human, however, and the conversation goes about as well as can be expected.

 

“Doctor, if the only reason you called me here was to administer one of your noxious potions—”

 

“Dammit, Spock! You’re behind on your vaccine schedule and—”

 

Fingers catch Spock’s wrist, a warm palm sliding against his—

 

Rage, frustration, anxiety, terror— it slams into Spock’s mind in one great wave, blanketing his mind in one thoughtless blast. His skin crawls, his body feels hot and his stomach cold and the urge to look into bright blue eyes framed with red curls and wire-rimmed spectacles immediately is—

 

_ LEONARD MCCOY, YOU ARE AN IDIOT AND HE IS A TOUCH TELEPATH. _

 

The Doctor’s hand spasms and lets go, but the emotions stay, corrupting every attempt Spock makes to calm himself. It’s too much— even his most advanced meditative techniques require some understanding, and Spock has no idea as to the source for this— for this _ hell. _

 

The room goes dark, very suddenly, and Spock has the vaguest sensation that he may have collapsed.

 

That might be fore the best.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Vulcans do not dream, but Spock does. Sometimes.

 

He is on Earth, in this dream, standing barefoot in an orchard that smells of overripe peaches and Georgia heat. He looks up, and a little girl grins back at him, wild, orange curls pulled back from her brown, freckled cheeks with a pink handkerchief.

 

“Sister Moe taught us a new song,” she informs him. “Another Jesus one.”

 

“Oh?” Spock says. “Well, that’s swell, Jo-Bird. And are you gonna sing it for me?”

 

That isn’t his accent, he notes distantly. Nor is it anywhere close to the dialect of formal Standard taught in most Vulcan schools.

 

She hums, giving him a gap-toothed, mischievous grin.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “Ready?”

 

There is a sudden, stinging pain in Spock’s side, and the orchard— and Jo-Bird— fall away.

 

He wakes up.

  
  


*.*

 

“—? Spock, can you hear me? Spock— oh, thank Christ.” Doctor McCoy leans against the biobed heavily, ignoring the way it sways under his sudden weight. “You scared the life out of me, Spock, oh, hell.”

 

His breath comes in gasping pants, and sweat clings to the loose strands of thinning brown hair where it falls into his face. He looks— exhausted. He _ is  _ exhausted, Spock knows.

 

Spock opens his mouth to ask what happened.

 

“Who is the girl?” is what comes out instead.

 

Doctor McCoy looks up sharply, his face draining of color.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Spock shifts to sit up on his elbows.

 

“The girl,” he says. “Jo-Bird.”

 

The Doctor swallows.

 

“I shouldn’t have touched you,” he says. “I’m sorry, Spock.”

 

“Doctor, I would like you to answer my question,” Spock says. “Who is she?”

 

Doctor McCoy runs a hand over his face. He looks— resigned.

 

“She’s my daughter,” he says. “And she’s in trouble.”

 

Spock sits up properly.

 

“What kind of trouble?” he asks. “Have you contacted the authorities?”

 

“Jo doesn’t get into the sort of trouble that would be made better with authorities,” the Doctor says dryly. “Which is why I would prefer this stays between us, Commander. I— I don’t want Jim getting mixed up in this.”

 

Doctor McCoy is fiercely protective of the captain and his career. It is the one thing that he and Spock, without fail, have always agreed on. Therefore, it is only logical to assume that the Doctor is correct in his decision not to involve the captain.

 

There is a strange sensation, a tightening in the muscles lining Spock’s esophagus, as though his body wished to vomit, but there is nothing in his stomach to expel. The frantic energy of the Doctor’s panic still pulses in the background of his main lines of thought.

 

“Doctor McCoy,” he says. “You must elaborate— no,” Spock interrupts when the Doctor opens his mouth. “No, you must explain. No details shall reach the captain’s ears, I assure you— but I must know what sort of danger you believe awaits you.”

 

“I can’t,” Doctor McCoy says. “There are certain things a man of order shouldn’t know, Spock, and my daughter is no friend of yours.”

 

“She is, however, the daughter of a respected colleague and friend to the captain,” Spock says. “Not to mention, Doctor, you are the Chief Medical Officer of Starfleet’s flagship. Certain sins might be overlooked, for a young woman so well-connected.”

 

The Doctor does not speak. He seems… torn, perhaps, would be the word Jim uses. Torn between the desperately Human need to _ talk about it  _ and his own personal dislike.

 

(Except the Doctor doesn’t dislike him. What Spock had felt when the Doctor had touched him was not dislike, exactly— frustration is a better word for it. It is… far more fleeting of an emotion that Spock had been expecting.)

 

“You’re offering to keep my secrets,” Doctor McCoy says finally.

 

“You keep a fair share of mine, Doctor,” Spock points out delicately. “So long as her troubles do not endanger the lives of others, I see no reason not to observe certain Human traditions.”

 

“Human traditions?”

 

“Nepotism,” Spock says. “It would not be the first time Starfleet has looked the other way for the reputation of a well-respected officer.” He folds his hands in his lap. “An explanation, Doctor. I would like one.”

 

Doctor McCoy sighs.

 

“I need a drink,” he says, turning away. “Let me get my things, and we’ll go to my quarters. I need to pack, anyway.”

 

He waits until Spock proves himself steady on his feet, then slips into his office, reappearing a moment later with a paper envelope and a PADD.

 

Spock raises an eyebrow, but keeps quiet.

 

He can save his questions until they reach the Doctor’s quarters.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Jo’s an archaeologist,” Doctor McCoy says, moving to fix himself a drink as Spock settles into a chair at the table. “With a knack for translation and puzzle-breaking. She spends a lot of her time running around in cursed tombs and ancient burial sites, mostly. That’s where the really unusual things are— or so she tells me.”

 

“The desecration of sacred sites is illegal within Federation space,” Spock says mildly. “At least, not without permission from local governments.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Spock, I’m aware of that.” Glass clinks as a crystal stopper is replaced on a long, spindle-necked bottle of acid green liquor. The room now smells vaguely of roses. “Jo likes symbolism, and you find a lot of that sort of thing when you look at burial practices. She also likes secret knowledge— that’s why I thought Kunel’at Seleya would be her life’s work.”

 

He chuckles into his drink, his back still turned to Spock’s raised eyebrows as he drains half the glass in one long, painful swallow.

 

“Your daughter is a part of the excavation team working in the Low Hills?” Spock asks. “She is on Vulcan?”

 

“She _ was  _ on Vulcan,” Doctor McCoy says. “Now, though, she’s somewhere else, and she doesn’t know where, and she’d like me to come get her, if I can.” He pauses. “She’s probably been kidnapped. Again.”

 

“Again?”

 

“It’s happened,” the Doctor says curtly, turning to look at Spock from over his shoulder. “Midge usually handles things. See, people still seem to think everybody buries their dead with modern precious things— jewels and gems and valuable artifacts. Usually, if you throw enough money at them, they go away.”

 

“Midge?”

 

“Midge Hartley— she and Jo have known each other since they were toddlers.” Doctor McCoy finally moves, settling in the chair across from Spock. “Midge— she’s dramatic, in her way, but she knows what to do in a crisis. I’m surprised the ‘fleet didn’t try and snap her up, to be honest.

 

“She met me on-planet,” he continues, reaching out to place his hand on the envelope on the table. “To give me this.”

 

He slides the envelope across the table. After a moment, Spock picks it up, sliding the stiff, colorful page out to look.

 

“She certainly has an artistic touch,” Spock says, scanning the words inked across the page quickly before turning his attention to the designs.

 

“She does,” Doctor McCoy agrees. “She likes to hide messages in the pictures for me to figure out. She sends one every time she moves site.”

 

Spock hums thoughtfully.

 

“And what message has she hidden here, Doctor?” he asks, looking up.

 

The Doctor looks back, his mouth a thin, grim line.

 

“She doesn’t want to go where she’s going, but she’s afraid the people who’ve found her might hurt her if she doesn’t,” he says, draining the rest of his drink. “And that she wants her father.”

 

“I see.” The Doctor is not a fighter. How does he plan to get her back? “How dangerous do you think these people are, Doctor?”

 

Doctor McCoy takes a deep, shuddering breath.

 

“Dangerous enough that she’s sent Midge to come find me.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ “Oh, look at that, Laurek, it’s nearly a perfect specimen.” _

 

_ “Indeed, Lady Joanna,” Laurek agrees. “It appears that meditation has steadied your hands, somewhat.” _

 

_ “I most definitely agree,” Jo says, rocking backwards on her heels into the dirt as she zooms in her monocle, bringing the rounded piece of carefully carved wood up to her eye. “Oh, look at that— someone carved her bloodline into the head of the staff, do you see that detail?” _

 

_ “She is the third to have such a totem buried with her,” Laurek says. “And she is without armor.” _

 

_ Jo hums. _

 

_ “I’m starting to think that the warriors weren’t buried here for the same reasons she and the others were,” she says. “We’ve dated these graves to what, seventy-five thousand solar cycles ago? But the armor on the warriors—” _

 

_ “Cannot be older than the Vish’nir Tal Age,” Laurek finishes. “You have a theory, Lady Joanna?” _

 

_ “Maybe,” she says. “Some ancient Andorian religions talk of rituals within certain circles of worship, ones that cast away the duties of blood— maybe this is some kind of sacrifice? The end of an important line, perhaps?” _

 

_ “... The warriors may have been guards,” Laurek says after a moment. “Protectors of the burial site, of some kind. Assuming, of course, that there is religious subtext, and that they are in any way connected to corpses dated thousands of years before they ever existed.” _

 

_ “When it comes to the ancients, there usually is.” Jo’s comm begins to buzz in her breast pocket, and she sighs, readjusting her monocle and handing Laurek the staff. “Bag it and tag this, will you? I’ve got to take a call.” _

 

_ “Of course.” Laurek takes the staff’s head and Jo pushes herself to her feet, dusting dirt from the back of her shorts as she flips open her comm. _

 

_ “Midge, what’s up?” _

 

_ “Jo, there’s people here looking for you. They’ve got guns.” _

 

_ Out of the pair of them, Midge is the one better suited to life on Vulcan. Vulcans, it turns out, are kind of stupid, maybe, and can’t tell that Midge’s lack of expression isn’t the same as a lack of emotion. That, or they appreciate the expression of emotionlessness more than  _ actual _ emotional control. It wouldn’t be the first time a society pretends their cultural quirks are for some principled reason no outsider could understand. _

 

_ (Personally, Jo thinks it’s a manners thing. She just hasn’t gotten up the courage to ask, yet.) _

 

_ Whatever the reason for their approval, Midge is doing her best impression of a statue as she waits for Jo in the shade of the sheer, pink canopy of the nutrition station, a broad-shouldered wall of sunburned bare arms and mutilated red afternoon robes. Beside her stand three Vulcan men, their billowing orange robes bulging strangely to Jo’s eyes. _

 

_ They must be the people with guns. Jo’s gotten better at spotting them, these last few years. _

 

_ Plastering on her biggest, brightest smile, Jo speeds up into a jog, kicking up sand as she goes. With unfriendly sorts, Jo’s found herself more successful at not getting punched in the face when she seems cooperative. _

 

_ “Hello!” she greets, all exaggerated, puppy dog cheerfulness as she slows to a stop in front of them. “Are you the guys Midge called me about?” _

 

_ “They are,” Midge says, because Midge is like that. The man standing beside her steps forward. The leader, then. _

 

_ “Lady Joanna,” he says, nodding in greeting. “I am called Iktar. I am here on behalf of my patron to ask for your expertise regarding a private matter. Is there somewhere where we may talk privately?” _

 

_ Oh, hey, look at that phrasing. Jo loves it when people use Forbidden Archaeology Lingo. _

 

_ “Of course,” she says, still smiling. “I certainly could do with a break after all that sunshine. How about my private tent? It’s just down that way.” She points towards the long row of yellow barrack tents. _

 

_ Iktar nods, this time in agreement. _

 

_ “Thank you, Lady Joanna,” he says, waiting until she starts moving to fall into step beside her. “I was told you were of an accommodating nature. I am pleased to find it to be true.” _

 

_ “I’ve never heard it put quite that way before, but thank you,” Jo says, her stomach sinking. Oh, no. “Thank you very much.” _

 

_ Jo’s a soft target, she knows. She plays a dangerous game, freelancing the way she does, and she’s no more a fighter than her father is. That’s why she has Midge. _

 

_ Patron. Private matter. Accommodating. Those are not words Jo likes hearing together. They just sound… oily. Evil, outside of a period romance between a prince and his portrait painter. _

 

_ Quietly, she does the math. Three Vulcans, all armed. She’s useless, and Midge isn’t armed. He said patron, which means there are probably more. If she decides these people are more dangerous than the usual garbage Jo likes to slum with, Midge is probably going to get killed. _

 

_ Jo is going to have to think, and fast. _

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Jo has a habit of dumpster diving,” Doctor McCoy says. “She’s built her reputation on exploring the places no one else will— warzones, radioactive wastes, Klingon space— and she always comes away with something, usually something that’s worth the danger. According to her, at least.” He grimaces, his eyes narrowing unhappily as he takes another drink. “She’s done work for the Federation as well as the Klingon Empire, along with a hand full of private jobs for universities, historians, and private collectors.”

 

“I see,” Spock says quietly. “And you say that she has been taken before?”

 

The Doctor swallows.

 

“A few times,” he says. “I’ve only gotten the call twice, though— well, from a refugee hospital on Qin’Kar’chu Minor the first time, and a ransom note from somewhere out of the Orion system the second.”

 

“And how were those previous situations dealt with?”

 

“The first time was just the aftermath,” the Doctor says, gaze growing distant with heavy memory. “She played dead long enough for Midge to get her out. It was… bad.”

 

Spock closes his eyes. He has a vague impression of tawny skin stretched too tight over high cheekbones, mottled with swollen, purple-black bruises. His skin twitches involuntarily, and it’s only thanks to the remnants of Spock’s shattered control that it does not turn into a proper, shoulder-shaking shudder.

 

Apparently, in matters of a personal nature, the Doctor prefers understatement to over-exaggeration. The man is frustratingly illogical in all things, it seems.

 

“And the other?”

 

Doctor McCoy huffs.

 

“It was before I took this assignment,” he says. “I paid the ransom, picked her up, and took her home. She stayed with me until I shipped out, and then she got the job on Vulcan.”

 

“A relief for you, I’m sure.”

 

“It was. Kunel’at Seleya is… everything she’s ever wanted.” He sighs wistfully. “Secret knowledge and special privileges appeal to her, and the things she discovers will only be known by herself and a handful of others… she likes that sort of thing.”

 

_ A superiority complex, one not unlike her mother’s.  _ The thought comes unbidden, which is strange, because Spock cannot recall ever having met the woman. He has absolutely no basis for such a judgement.

 

“Now, this letter,” the Doctor continues, tapping the page on the table between them with his finger. “Is telling me that she’s left Vulcan with nine people who wish her harm. The fact that she sent Midge after me means she decided Midge couldn’t handle them, which is pretty damn troubling, considering what Midge can handle.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ “The temple is hidden deep within the mountains of Karak’tor,” Iktar says. “We believe the last of the Order of T’Roda took refuge there after the Call to Logic.” _

 

_ “That’s fascinating,” Jo says, and she isn’t even lying. The Order was the last serious group to resist Surak’s logic before they disappeared, and no one actually knows what happened to them. “What makes you think that?” _

 

_ “What little of the writings we have deciphered say as much,” Iktar says. “Unfortunately, most of what we have discovered so far is in code— hence the need to speak with you.” He tilts his head to one side. “Nine Vulcans working in tandem, it appears, is not enough to complete our work.” _

 

_ Oh, wow, someone’s bitter. _

 

_ “Do you have more pictures?” Jo asks, pressing the pattern of stars that shine so brightly on the PADD in her hands into her memory. “Close-ups, maybe? There seems to be some kind of carving around the edges of these skylights… Holy Hannah, how has nobody told me about this?” _

 

_ “Our patron has worked very hard to ensure the location of the temple remains a secret,” Iktar explains. “It has been hidden by a series of stone mechanisms our engineers are still working to unravel. If there was perhaps a guide among the writings we have discovered… that would be helpful.” _

 

_ “Oh, I’m definitely interested,” she says, hardly looking up. “Feel free to bring me anything you want looked at… this is definitely… something…” She trails off, having caught sight of a familiar-looking curve carved into the dusty orange stone in the photograph. _

 

_ “Unfortunately, that is not possible. The documents are delicate, and my patron would not risk transporting them at this time.” Iktar pauses. “He would like to offer you a position on our excavation team, effective immediately.” _

 

_ He talks awful military for a man born to a peaceful race, Jo thinks absently. Effective immediately, Jesus Christ. Who does this guy think he is, Starfleet? _

 

_ Her smile doesn’t drop, though. She can’t afford to let it. _

 

_ It’s clear they’re not going to let her say no, obviously. The guard that isn’t blocking the door hasn’t looked away from her since Iktar started talking, letting his robes hang open so as to reveal the impressive weapon hanging from his belt. _

 

_ “Oh, gosh,” she says, covering her mouth with dusty fingers. “Gosh, that’s— I would love that, I would—” Think fast, Jo, think fast. “But I’ll need a few days to tie up loose ends here. Would your patron mind terribly if I took just a week or so to handle things here before I join you?” _

 

_ (Her father will come if she calls him, but she can’t just call him— well, a letter might do. She’s been meaning to write him anyway.) _

 

_ Iktar bows his head. _

 

_ “Of course not, Lady Joanna,” he says. “We can wait for you.” _

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Midge is your daughter’s colleague?”

 

The Doctor snorts. He is more relaxed, now, his body loose and soft with drink.

 

It has loosened his tongue, too.

 

“Midge is her _ traveling companion,” _ Doctor McCoy says, rolling his eyes. “The definition, as I understand it, changes from day-to-day as needed. Most of the time, though, she’s her friend— a very protective one.

 

“Officially, she’s paid to make arrangements on Jo’s behalf when she travels. Mostly it’s an excuse for them to spend time together,” he continues. “Midge isn’t one for scholarly pursuits, exactly… she’s more of a— a guardian angel.”

 

“And Jo… needs a guardian angel?”

 

“Jo needs a lot of things. Midge is one of those things.” The Doctor sighs. “Midge can protect her most of the time, and Jo knows what she’s capable of. The fact that she sent her my way is… well, Mr. Spock, it’s a sign of something terrible on the horizon.”

 

Spock is quiet for a moment. He does not have much experience in the way of paternal instinct— he was not the sort of child often in need of dramatic rescues, and when he did, his mother usually handled it— but the echoes of the Doctor’s emotion still throbs from the back of his mind. The itch of the feeling is building under his skin, a restlessness that can be attributed only to the primitive instinct that has drive Doctor McCoy to leave his post— possibly permanently, if his assessment of the danger his daughter is in is accurate.

 

The thought… it does not sit well with Spock.

 

“I will accompany you, Doctor.” The words are out of his mouth before he realizes he has come to a decision. Spock stiffens, but stays silent. It is only logical somebody accompany him— there is no other doctor more capable of managing the captain during a medical crisis, and very few who could manage the Medical at the level of efficiency Doctor McCoy keeps it.

 

The Doctor’s eyes widen slightly.

 

“No, you won’t, Spock,” he says, brow knitting together as his mouth pulls into a familiar frown. “Jim will need you here, and anyway, it’s got nothing to do with you.”

 

“The Enterprise has shore leave for another ten days, at least,” Spock points out. “Possibly longer, considering Lieutenant Commander Scott has put in a request to shut down the engines for manual maintenance.” Spock has yet to actually approve the request, but that can be handled once he has returned to his quarters.

 

“I… Spock, this is serious,” Doctor McCoy says. He always speaks so loudly— there is confusion on his face, his general irritation with Spock smoothed away with the liberal application of alien liquor that for once, Spock chose not to comment on.

 

(The Doctor, Spock knows, is decidedly more cooperative when intoxicated, provided one is careful not to insult his pride. Though he had not been certain of the outcome of this conversation, he knew it would only be to his benefit to— just this once— leave the Doctor be.)

 

“It is,” Spock says, nodding once. “Which is why I would accompany you, Doctor. I do not imagine the Captain would appreciate learning you were killed as a result of being… hardheaded.”

 

“Hardheaded?” the Doctor repeats, a mulish expression forming in the lines around his mouth. “Who are you calling hardheaded?”

 

Spock arches an eyebrow.

 

“You are many things, Doctor,” he says. “But a fighter is not one of them.”

 

Doctor McCoy crosses his arms.

 

“I’ll have Midge with me.”

 

“And you believe your daughter was taken by Vulcans,” Spock points out. “A species significantly stronger than Humans. Not to mention the fact that you believe your daughter knew her friend was no match for her kidnappers.”

 

Doctor McCoy scowls.

 

“And who’s going to take care of the Captain if we both leave?” he says. “Jim’s smart, but he can’t keep his nose out of trouble for the life of him. He needs one of us, at least.”

 

“I think he will be able to manage a week or two,” Spock says.

 

“A week or two?” Doctor McCoy snorts. “Spock, I don’t even know where they took her. All I’ve got are stars, and I don’t actually know if that’s where they’re taking her, or if it’s a map of some kind, or…”

 

“Stars?” Spock repeats, tilting his head. “What do you mean, Doctor?”

 

“Her letter,” the Doctor says, rolling his shoulders. “She did Moon Letters— well, she used glow in the dark paint, but. Moon Letters.”

 

Spock still does not understand. The Doctor seems to read as much in his silence, at least, which saves them both the embarrassment.

 

“Lord of the Rings,” Doctor McCoy says, tugging the letter out of its envelope and laying it out on the table. “Computer, lights off.”

 

The room is bathed in darkness quite suddenly, save for the page between them. The glow of the otherwise invisible paint is enough to light up the Doctor’s face, his laugh lines turning harsh in the shadows.

 

“The Nazgul light up because there’s nine kidnappers, see?” The Doctor says, pointing to the ghostly figures glowing eerily up at them from the bottom of the letter. “Or maybe just nine people involved. I don’t know. And the stars… I’m hoping there might be some math Midge can plug in to get us a location, but that’s assuming Jo had some idea of where she was going.”

 

Spock focuses on the stars. After a moment, he realizes they seem… familiar.

 

“If this is the view from her final destination, then I have good news for you, Doctor— she is still on Vulcan,” he says. “These are the constellations visible from Ishish’tor’am, a Southwestern peak in the Karak’tor Mountains.”

 

_ “What?  _ She— wait, they didn’t take her off-planet?” The Doctor straightens. “How far is that from Mount Seleya?”

 

“Mount Seleya is on the other side of the continent,” Spock says. “Unless she made a trip on her own time—”

 

“No, she’d never do that.” The Doctor shakes his head. “Jo doesn’t take vacations, not in the middle of big projects.”

 

“Then the logical conclusion is that this is where she believes she is being taken.” Spock straightens. “Computer, lights on.”

 

The Doctor winces as light floods back into his quarters, but he keeps his complaints to himself, for once.

 

“I need to call Midge,” he says, rising unsteadily to his feet. “I need to call Midge, and I—”

 

“Need to rest,” Spock supplies, moving to his feet in time to catch the Doctor as he sways dangerously to one side. “You are intoxicated, Doctor.”

 

Doctor McCoy makes a face— frustration, Spock knows, and from the dull pulse of his thoughts that manages to filter through the thin layers of his uniform shirt where Spock’s caught him by the shoulders. Frustration and intoxication and the slightest touch of shame.

 

“I didn’t realize I’d had so much,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.  _ “Christ, _ now’s not the time—”

 

“You will sleep, Doctor,” Spock interrupts before the Doctor can work himself up properly. “You will rest now, and call your contact in the morning. Then, we shall meet her and set a course for Vulcan. Is that agreeable?”

 

“I—” Doctor McCoy looks like he wants to argue, but he does not. Instead, he deflates, going soft and pliant in Spock’s grip. “Lord Almighty, I’m tired.”

 

And the trouble has yet to even begin.

 

“Come, Doctor,” Spock says, gently steering him towards his bed. “You need your strength, and I must make arrangements.”

 

There is no need to continue speaking. It is clear the Doctor will not argue with him, passive enough when Spock maneuvers him onto the mattress.

 

“Computer, set an alarm for 0600 hours,” Spock says. “Doctor McCoy, I will see you in the morning.”

 

The Doctor rolls onto his side with a groan, his back to Spock.

 

“Don’t forget your civvies,” he says into his fingers, his mild intoxication colliding quite suddenly with what Spock can only assume is a few nights of sleeplessness. “If you’ve got ‘em, anyway.”

 

“I do.” Spock hesitates. “Good night, Doctor.”

 

Doctor McCoy sighs, his eyes slipping shut already.

 

“‘Night, Spock.”

 

Spock lowers the lights as the Doctor slips into the quiet snuffles of sleep, his shoulders dropping completely as he rolls forward onto his stomach and goes still. He looks smaller than usual, Spock notes absently as the familiarity of artificial night turns the room a dark, deep blue. Certainly not a man up to the task of fending off nine potential opponents.

 

Yes, Spock thinks to himself as he slips out into the hall. It is only logical he joins the Doctor on his mission.

 

He might get himself killed, otherwise.

  
  


*.*

  
  
  


Spock does not dream, and he did not dream last night. His mind was simply processing the things he had seen when Doctor McCoy touched him.

 

Jo was a beautiful little girl, as far as Human standards go. Doctor McCoy’s memories of her paint her as a laughing, energetic child, always barefoot, always happy to get dirty, whether she was helping her mother in the garden or chasing her cousins out into a summer storm. She was and likely is— intelligent, her fascination in Classical Terran Media spurring her into the study of Preservation and then Archaeology.

 

Xenoarchaeology had been a surprise, when she’d announced her intentions to go for her doctorate. Her father had been so proud— it felt like Spock’s chest was imploding as he lived the memory of her walking across the stage to receive her doctorate. If that was what it is to live without control, Spock can’t help but wonder how Humans have survived this long. The feeling was… overwhelming.

 

The love Doctor McCoy has for his daughter trumps all logic. It is an instinct stronger than self-preservation, vicious and single-minded in its goal. The Doctor will do anything to find her again now that she’s gone.

 

It is… admirable, in a way. Spock does not know why he thinks so, but he does— it is something he will have to take time to consider, when he has the time.

 

For now, however, he has work to do.

  
  


*.*

 

“Midge said she’d be waiting for us at Docking Bay Six-C,” Doctor McCoy says. He looks strange, out of uniform, his civilian clothing mimicking the browns and greens Spock now knows from his memories of life on Earth. His boots, his jacket, and even the battered brown backpack thrown over his shoulder are all made of synthetic brown leather, likely to hide the nature of the dull gray inner lining of the items.

 

“Presents from Jo,” Doctor McCoy says, catching his eye. He pats the collar of his jacket. “Phaser-resistant nano-technology, developed by a friend of hers at the Vulcan Science Academy. Never had much cause to wear it before, but…”

 

But his daughter’s captors may be armed. Spock agrees the thought has merit— he has two phasers hidden away in his own travel bag, though he has yet to inform the Doctor.

 

“What did you tell Jim?” The Doctor asks, facing forward again. “About your sudden leave request.”

 

“Simple, Doctor— I informed the Captain that I was needed on Vulcan due to a family emergency.”

 

The Doctor blanches.

 

“Hell’s bells, Spock—”

 

Spock holds up a finger. Strangely enough, it is enough to silence his companion.

 

“I said it was a family emergency,” he says. “I did not say it was my family. Should the Captain come to a false conclusion, it is only because he did not ask for clarification on the matter.”

 

The Doctor closes his mouth, his brow furrowing.

 

“You lied,” he says.

 

“I implied.”

 

“That’s a lie by omission, and you know it.”

 

Spock shrugs.

 

“Vulcans recognize a difference,” he says. “It is the very foundation on which all political progress is built.”

 

Doctor McCoy stares at him for a moment, then snorts, turning away with a grin.

 

“Nice to know some things are universal,” he says. “Even for Vulcans.”

 

“Surely there must be some commonality between our species, Doctor,” Spock says. “Otherwise, communication and cooperation would be impossible.”

 

“Sure, sure— wait, I think I see her.” The Doctor stops, gripping the handle of Spock’s shoulder pack for balance as he pushes up onto his toes. Spock goes still, acutely aware of the Doctor’s unstable position as he wobbles and pushes against his weight. After a moment, he points.

 

“There,” he says. “Docking Bay Six-C, the _ Rocinante.” _

 

He lets go, settling back onto his heels, and makes a beeline for the woman, cutting through the crowd with a handful of absent apologies as Spock does his best to follow.

 

“Midge!” The Doctor slows to a stop in front of her, craning his neck to meet her eyes. She is unusually tall, for a Human, especially a female. It is… notable. “How’re we doing?”

 

“The ship’s ready, Doctor Leo,” she says, leaning down to allow Doctor McCoy to kiss her cheek. “Coordinates locked and loaded.”

 

“Good.” Doctor McCoy looks at Spock. His expression is… Spock does not recognize the expression.  “Are you sure you still want to do this, Spock?”

 

What an illogical question. Clearly, Spock has made his decision, in this matter.

 

“It will take approximately forty-eight hours to reach Vulcan, Doctor,” he says. “I thought you had made it clear there was no time to waste.”

 

The Doctor scowls, but there is relief in his eyes when they meet Spock’s.

 

“Always the smartass,” he mutters, turning away. “Midge, let’s get flying.”

 

Midge nods sharply, turning on her heel and disappearing into the ship without another word.

 

Doctor McCoy grimaces.

 

“Well, that’s not good,” he mutters, looking back at Spock. “Come on— maybe we can convince her to give us the grand tour.”

 

He does not sound particularly hopeful, however. Spock does not understand. As far as he can tell, Midge has yet to do anything that might indicate… well, anything.

 

Perhaps he might coax an explanation from the Doctor. He has been unusually cooperative, as of late.

 

Spock might get lucky.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Leonard doesn’t have much luck with Midge. She gives him the specs of the ship— it’s small, but it’s enough for somewhere as close as Vulcan— and points him in the direction of the bathroom, then climbs into the cockpit and locks the door. That is… worrying. Very worrying.

 

Leonard leaves her be, though, preferring to take the time to snoop on his own while Spock inspects the engine room. It takes him about twenty minutes to find a bottle of white wine— Midge never disappoints— and another ten to find a pitcher and figure out how the ice machine works. By the time Spock returns, Leonard’s mixed up a nice little spritzer to have for the fridge, something he knows Midge might actually drink.

 

(He pours himself a glass, too. The sounds on a ship so small are far from calming— he forgets how quiet the hum of the _ Enterprise  _ actually is.)

 

“Considering the size and age of this ship, the engine is in very good condition,” Spock says, moving to sit opposite him at the little table in the kitchen. “How did Midge manage to find it on such short notice?”

 

“Midge has a way with haggling,” Leonard says. “Her mother’s just the same.”

 

Spock makes a quiet noise, then goes quiet, his expression going thoughtful as he focuses his gaze on the small viewscreen over the refrigerator.

 

Leonard lets the quiet rest between them. It’s a relief, honestly. The idea of conversation— specifcially conversation with  _ Spock, _ which is less conversation and more a battle of wit that Leonard loses more often than he’s willing to admit— is exhausting.  _ Life  _ is exhausting, right now.

 

“Doctor.”

 

Leonard closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose.

 

“What, Spock?”

 

“Could you explain to me the contents of Jo’s letter?”

 

Leonard looks up. Spock looks like he’s puzzling, like perhaps he’s trying to put together all of Leonard’s reasoning properly. _ Logically. _

 

Right, because Leonard didn’t actually explain anything, really. He just told him what he suspected, and Spock had taken him at his word— which, Leonard is now realizing, is a little unusual.

 

Well, maybe he ought to give the man a little bit of a break. He’s shown more faith in Leonard than Leonard ever thought him capable— that alone merits some kind explanation.

 

Sighing, Leonard leans over, opening his bag and pulling out the envelope. He pulls out the letter, already starting to go soft at the edges from Human fingers, and sets it down on the table.

 

“Illuminated manuscripts,” he says. “What do you know about them?”

 

Spock straightens.

 

“A Human art,” he says. “Popular during the Medieval Period. The pictures typically are representative of the Biblical stories written alongside them, occasionally personalized to represent the owners of the piece. Jo appears to have an interest in it.”

 

“Jo has an interest in everything,” Leonard says. “That’s why she likes these. Talking in pictures, talking in code— she likes when people understand her humor.”

 

“She likes when you understand her humor.”

 

Leonard gives him a wry smile.

 

“I do my best,” he says. “I spend a lot of time looking things up, however. Her personal catalogue is overwhelming at the best of times— she’s merciful enough to limit herself to movies and known, Human codes from the eighteenth to twenty-first centuries.” Spock arches an eyebrow. Leonard shrugs, feeling his cheeks heat, though he can’t quite put his finger on the source of his sudden embarrassment.

 

“Jo’s like Jim,” he says. “Except she thought Starfleet would be too…  _ uptight.” _

 

“Was she right?”

 

Leonard blinks.

 

“Of course she was,” he says, frowning. “What kind of a question is that?”

 

Spock doesn’t answer, but Leonard has the strangest sense that perhaps Spock’s the one embarrassed, now. It’s a strange thing to realize— Spock usually only gets embarrassed about private things… though to be fair, he did just ask a redundant question. Spock usually doesn’t do that sort of thing.

 

Leonard sighs.

 

“This,” he says, tapping the first image in the top left-hand corner. “Is Surak.”

 

Spock blinks.

 

“I do not believe I understand.”

 

Leonard sighs.

 

_ “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  _ Have you ever heard of it?” Spock nods and Leonard continues. “Aslan, the lion in the book, is often referred to as a stand-in for characters in the Christian religion— more specifically, a Christ figure. Now, in the movie, the Witch wanted to keep the kingdom in a permanent winter. The deepest circles of Hell are supposed to actually be frozen wastelands, according to _ Dante’s Inferno.”  _ Leonard looks up. “Do you follow me so far?”

 

“I… this logic is very thin—”

 

“It’s not logic, it’s literary analysis.” Leonard decides to move on. “Now, because of Vulcan setting in the background, I know she doesn’t actually mean Jesus, because Jesus is Terran. So, who is the Vulcan equivalent of Christ? Surak, that’s right.”

 

“Doctor—”

 

“Jo simplifies things for herself,” Leonard interrupts before Spock can correct him. “A famous religious figure who preaches peace and cooperation sounds an awful lot like Jesus, so that’s how she remembers.”

 

“That is not an efficient system.”

 

“It’s her system, and it works just fine,” Leonard says. “Now, from what I can figure, whoever took her is in some way involved with Surak’s teachings. In fact, they probably oppose them.” He taps the witch pointedly. “Jo doesn’t draw enemies for fun.

 

“These people here,” he says, moving on. “Are Princess Leia and R2D2. Now, in the first film of the _ Star Wars _ franchise, R2D2 delivers a message from the Princess Leia to Obi-Wan Kenobi, the message being this:  _ Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” _

 

“That… is perhaps a little more understandable.”

 

“Yes, well, Jo set aside mystery for urgency, this time. She’s gone out of her way to make it easy— there are only three real messages, besides the star pattern. Aslan, Leia, and…” he trails off, finger moving to the bottom of the page. “The Nazgul.”

 

“How did you know she would use glow paint?” Spock asks. “Is that typical of her letters?”

 

Leonard shakes his head.

 

“No, but Moon Letters still tie in with the Tolkien theme,” he says. “She doesn’t use glow paint often, though— it was the order, that gave them away.”

 

“Order?”

 

“In Jo’s favorite adaptation of the trilogy, the first movie gives a summary of the history leading up to the events of the films. The line goes:  _ Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of men, who, above all else, desire power.’ _

 

“Three, seven, nine— that’s the order. But here—”

 

“Three, nine, seven.” Spock looks up. “She relied on your knowledge of this particular film to guess her meaning?”

 

“Well, yes.” Leonard shrugs, a little sheepish. “We watch the films every year together, to celebrate Tolkien’s birthday.”

 

“That still does not explain how you knew to look for glow paint.”

 

“Sure it does.” Leonard sits back in his chair. “Because with the power of the Ring of Power, a tool of evil and darkness, one can see them for what they truly are— wraiths, enslaved by a greater force.” He pauses, face going pale. “Lord Almighty, I didn’t even think about that.”

 

“Pardon me, Doctor?”

 

“A backer,” Leonard says. “What if the men who took her. What if they didn’t act alone?”

 

“They likely did not,” Spock say. “Tomb-raiding is an expensive hobby.”

 

Leonard looks up sharply.

 

“Somebody looked up my daughter’s file,” he remarks, wary.

 

“I did, not somebody.” Spock dips his head. “It was an informative read.”

 

“Oh? How so?”

 

“I believe your ability to keep the Captain in check for the majority of his time aboard the ship is largely thanks to your daughter and her adventures.” Spock pauses. “Her file is… colorful.”

 

“That’s awfully polite of you to say.” A little metaphorical, too, which is always fun. “You must be surprised.”

 

Spock dips his head.

 

“It was foolish of me to have any preconceived notions of your life before enlistment,” he says. “Your daughter is a prodigy, Doctor McCoy.”

 

“I’ve been told.” Leonard closes his eyes, tasting water and cheap wine and wishing for something a little stronger— but no. Last night was enough, and probably shouldn’t have happened in the first place. “I’m… I might be worrying for no reason.”

 

“You believe your daughter has been kidnapped, Doctor,” Spock points out mildly. “That is certainly a reason for concern.”

 

“Well, obviously, but…” Leonard shakes his head. “It’s Jo. She’s gotten herself into trouble before. Bad trouble. But she can usually get herself out of it, too.” He sighs. “I don’t know. I’m going after her either way, I suppose, so it doesn’t matter.”

 

“I suppose it does not.” He pauses, long enough for Leonard to turn and look at him.

 

There’s an awkward set to Spock’s shoulders, the lines at the edges of his mouth slightly deeper than usual. Leonard leaves him be and waits, and he isn’t disappointed.

 

“If it is any consolation,” Spock says slowly. “I believe Jim still has her beat in the number of kidnappings he has been a victim of.”

 

Leonard stares at him. Then, he starts to laugh.

 

And he thought Vulcans didn’t have a sense of humor.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The sleeping quarters are small, two small pallets set on opposite sides of a room roughly the same size as Spock’s shared bathroom aboard the Enterprise. Either way, it seems to be enough for the Doctor, who collapses into the blankets the moment his boots are off and starts snoring not long after. It is somewhat impressive, actually, that the man can manage to fall asleep so quickly— likely, the skill is simply a side-effect of long shifts in over-busy hospitals, but, still.

 

It is interesting.

 

There are a lot of things that are striking Spock as interesting about the Doctor, things he knows are not new. The slightness of his frame, the defensive edge that lingers behind every word says, every explanation he gives, ready to fight Spock the moment he decides the Vulcan has offered insult.

 

(Spock has never spoken so carefully in his life, which is something to consider, if his entire childhood is taken into account. Most of his adult life, as well.)

 

Something about the way Spock views the Doctor has changed, and he is uncertain as to why. What has triggered this sudden fascination? If anything, the Doctor’s current situation should make him uncomfortable— he has told Spock more about himself the the past twenty-four hours than he has in the past two years, and unlike yesterday, he had not even been intoxicated.

 

Spock is trying to make sense of this strange new understanding.

 

Doctor McCoy is an emotional man. It is part of what characterizes him as Human, the same as his rounded ears, his smile-lined face, and the hand gestures that accompany his words during most verbal conversations. Certainly, he is more emotional than most Humans Spock has met in his life, but Spock is beginning to think that perhaps he has made  _ assumptions _ rather than observations regarding the Human ability to control themselves; Doctor McCoy’s touch— and the feelings that came with it— had proven strong enough to knock Spock unconscious, and now, nearly thirty-six hours later, he can still feel the echoes pulsing through his thoughts.

 

Powerful emotions spell the death of a Vulcan, should they let themselves go unrestrained for too long. Spock is starting to wonder if perhaps it is the same for a Human— in Doctor McCoy’s heart he had felt fear, yes, but there had been certainty, too. Doctor McCoy would do whatever needed to be done to free his daughter, even at the cost of his own life.

 

Luckily, it will not have to come to that. After all, Spock will not allow it.

 

The Doctor grunts in his sleep and shifts, rolling over onto his back. One hand dangles limply over the edge of his pallet, and Spock is quite suddenly overcome with…  _ temptation. _

 

It is illogical. The Doctor’s touch had nearly killed him, yesterday, or at least it felt like it. Why would he have any inclination to try again?

 

Spock stares at the hand, just inches away from the edge of his own bed. The hand twitches, but otherwise, the Doctor does not seem to notice.

 

A beat passes, then two.

 

Spock reaches out, the tip of his middle finger barely brushing against the Doctor’s first knuckle—

  
  


_ — Leonard stands at the mouth of a cave, barefoot and wearing the tattered remains of his Medical uniform. There is a campfire burning somewhere behind him, the flames throwing the shadow of an infant’s cradle against the murky brown stone. _

 

_ “Spock,” Leonard says, frowning at him. “You should get inside. You’ll get hurt.” _

 

_ Spock tilts his head. _

 

_ “Why would I be hurt, Doctor?” he asks. “Is something happening?” _

 

_ As he speaks, a horn sounds in the distance. Leonard stiffens. _

 

_ “The hunt begins,” he says. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, stretching what’s left of the blue fabric until it starts to creak. “Go inside, Spock— someone needs to keep watch over Jo.” _

 

_ “What do you plan to do, Doctor?” _

 

_ Leonard scowls. _

 

_ “Always with the questions,” he grunts. “I’m going to stop them, of course.” _

 

_ The wind picks up, the clouds shredding in slow motion as they push past the moon and into open sky. In the moonlight, the pale blue of the Leonard’s eyes takes on a silvery, inhuman shine. _

 

_ “Doctor, you cannot fight them alone.” _

 

_ “I’ll do what needs to be done.” His shirt tears under his fingers, his nails unnaturally sharp. “And you’ll stay with Jo. Someone will need to protect her, if they get past me.” _

 

_ He reaches out, pushing gently at Spock’s chest. Still, he feels little pinpricks of pain, the points of the Doctor’s claws like needles drawing blood. _

 

_ “Go,” Leonard says. “Why do you think I let you come along?” _

 

_ Spock steps back, uncertain, but he obeys, retreating into the cave as Leonard faces forward again, fabric fluttering to his feet as he begins to peel away the shreds of his clothes, piece by piece. _

 

_ The cradle is far more intricate than anything Spock can imagine Leonard having in his home, gilded ivory and carved creatures crawling up and down the bars as mountain of soft, white fabric pour over the railings. As he circles the fire for a closer look, he realizes that he sees hair, fiery red and curly where its piled beside the crib. The closer he gets, the bigger both the cradle and the pile seem to grow, until Spock has to push himself up onto the balls of his feet to look over the edge. _

 

_ A fully-grown Jo is fast asleep, curled up on her side and drooling slightly into the pillow as she cuddles with a battered copy of Vulcan Script for Humans. She is fully dressed, her sensible brown jumpsuit and boots red with Vulcan earth. Every time she shifts, she stains the white linens of the cradle, absently kicking at the blankets as she rolls onto her stomach with an unintelligible grumble as her hair catches where it hangs over the edge of the railing as though she were some sort of fairy tale princess,  _

 

_ The horn sounds again, so much closer, this time, and Spock looks back to the mouth of the cave. The silhouette of the Leonard shifts as the sound of thundering hooves approaches, a rolling storm of earth and iron, but he does not move. _

 

_ Instead, he grows. _

 

_ Pure, unadulterated mass forms as Leonard swells three times his size, a muzzle of sharp teeth forming and opening to let out an ungodly roar as his claws lengthen and his curved ears grow and shift to the top of his head. The horses and their riders approach, horns blowing, the clatter of steel weapons clattering against plate armor enough to make Spock go cold. _

 

_ Leonard roars again, his ursine shape moving suddenly onto all-fours as he charges into the darkness. _

 

_ The screams of horses and the shouts of men cut through the night, echoing through the cave. Spock is frightened, he has never been so afraid; it is instinct rather than logic that drives him to leap over the railing of the cradle, sliding into place beside Jo, who doesn’t stir at his sudden closeness. _

 

_ The sounds of battle ring through the night, the cries of dying men met by Leonard’s rage. Jo doesn’t twitch, still sound asleep. _

 

_ There is movement in the corner of Spock’s gaze. He turns, and Leonard is there, fur dark with blood. Spock watches, absolutely still, as Leonard looms over the cradle, claws clicking against the ivory as he settles them gently on the railing and leans over them, nose twitching as he snuffles at first Spock’s hair, then Jo’s, then Spock’s again. _

 

_ The sudden, warm wetness of Leonard’s tongue against Spock’s neck makes him jump, and Leonard huffs, hot breath blowing across Spock’s ear and making him shiver. A heavy paw finds the front of Spock’s robes, lifting him from the cradle like a doll before depositing him gently by the fire. As he watches, Leonard settles down onto all fours again, dropping himself onto his stomach to press against Spock’s back. Settling his great head onto his paws, he meets Spock’s dark eyes with his own startling blue, makes a quiet noise, and pointedly closes his eyes as if to sleep— _

  
  


Spock wakes up to the artificial light of morning. The Doctor is still asleep, facing him as he snores lightly, their hands still clasped together in the little space between their pallets.

 

Spock drops his hand as though he’d been burned, abruptly turning his back to the Doctor.

 

That… that is not what he expected.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Have you eaten anything?”

 

Midge holds up a granola bar, not taking her eyes off her console.

 

Leonard sighs.

 

“Well, it’s something, I guess.” He sets down the ration pack he’d brought for her by her elbow, just in case. “How are you doing, Midge?”

 

“Fine.” Midge still doesn’t look up, fingers twisting absently around the spherical top of one of the thousands of shiny red knobs laid out in front of her. “So, does Jo know about your boyfriend?”

 

Leonard blinks.

 

“Boyfriend?”

 

“You know. Commander Spock.” Now, Midge looks up. “Don’t try and pretend, Doctor Leo. I know Vulcans, and Vulcans have a very healthy understanding of personal space. That’s why I like them.”

 

“... Are you implying Spock doesn’t have a healthy understanding of personal space?”

 

Midge shrugs, turning to face forward again.

 

“Not with you,” she says. “He likes to stand awful close when he stands next to you.”

 

Sometimes, Leonard wonders what he did to end up in situations like this.

 

“He is not my boyfriend,” he says slowly. “He is my _ Commander, _ and for the most part, he doesn’t like me very much.”

 

“Well, he liked you enough to come with you,” Midge says. “And if you’re not dating, then he definitely likes you. You should go for it. He’s handsome, for a Vulcan.”

 

No, he’s just handsome— but that’s not the point. The point is—

 

“Spock doesn’t have a crush on me, Midge,” he says, frowning at her. “And I’ve got no idea why you’d think he does.”

 

Midge shrugs again and doesn’t answer.

 

Leonard takes it for the blessing it is and ducks out of the cockpit.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Just because Jo is taking advantage of certain stereotypes doesn’t mean she isn’t being watched. It’s been a month, and she has yet to see the outside of this temple, set to work in the lower levels— in the catacombs.

 

There are fifty-three Vulcans buried under this mountain, entombed in garnet stones and red clay. Their stories— and their mission— is inscribed on the stone walls surrounding them, in lettering so small Jo’s had to break out her headset, much to the amusement of her Vulcan captors.

 

Amusement is one of many things her new acquaintances are willing to show her. They’re sort of rebels, as far as Jo can tell, though it’s very clear they think themselves revolutionaries.

 

Jo used to like that sort of thing. Now, though, she’s here, and these revolutionaries? Nothing like _ Les Amis de l’ABC.  _ There’s hardly any singing.

 

Ah, yes, the use of humor to assuage absolute, pants-shitting terror. On the one hand, it’s upped her game with the Vulcans, who seem to think she’s an absolute airhead with a knack for languages. On the other hand, she actually thinks her heart might give out from the stress of keeping it up.

 

T’Sirni has been on the prowl since she woke up alone this morning. She’s a jealous sort, and her bondmate’s just a touch too handsome for her comfort. Jo didn’t know Vulcans even _ could  _ cheat, but apparently, T’Sirni thinks it’s a very real thing to worry about.

 

Jo doesn’t get why she bothers— but then, Jo’s also never had a date, unless she counts that Klingon captain on Risa, but she doesn’t, because then she’d have to tell her father about it, and then her father would kill her.

 

(She’s still got his comm number, though, for the next time she happens to be near Klingon space. The Captain was an absolute sweetie, and almost as polite as most Vulcans she’s worked with— he called her Lady Jo all evening.)

 

“And what had you so thoughtful, Lady Jo?”

 

Jo startles to hide her grimace. Lady Jo doesn’t sound nearly so sweet when it comes out of Iktar’s mouth.

 

“Iktar, Jesus _ Christ.”  _ She presses a hand to her chest dramatically. “Don’t you make any noise?”

 

Iktar gives her an amused smirk.

 

“You were very deep in thought,” he says, settling onto the low stone bench across from her. “I did knock.”

 

He probably did, since Jo made it clear very early on that the little cell that had been designated as her quarters for the duration of this excavation would mostly be used for nudity during her off hours. She’s not personally one for nakedness, but it was a small price to pay to ensure some modicum of privacy. Besides, it’s _ hot. _

 

(Vulcans apparently go green with embarrassment, which is a factoid she didn’t know before Iktar walked in on her that first time. It’s the little things that really help her get through the day.)

 

She gives him a sheepish smile, turning her face away as if to hide a blush that won’t appear.

 

“Oh, nothing,” she says. “Just this guy I know. I’m thinking, you know, when we get all this translated? I might go see him.”

 

Iktar’s eyes widen.

 

“Well, now, Lady Jo, that is very interesting,” he says. His tone is teasing, as if she were fifteen instead of twenty-eight. “A Terran, then? Or perhaps one of the Vulcans from your team in the Seleyan Foothills?”

 

“Oh, Iktar, I wish it were that simple.” She sighs, twisting a curl around her finger absently. “But it’s probably not meant to be— my father wouldn’t approve.”

 

He _ definitely  _ wouldn’t approve of Koloth. Which is why she went out on a not-date with him instead of a date-date— that being said, he wouldn’t exactly stop her, either.

 

Iktar raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

 

“A forbidden love?” he asks. “What an adventurous life you live, Lady Jo.”

 

“It certainly has its moments,” she agrees. “But—”

 

Somebody screams, and they’re both up on their feet in a moment.

 

“That was T’Opasa,” Iktar says, moving towards the door. “She was supposed to restore the Upper Eastern Corridor with T’Sirni this morning—”

 

Which means she was up in the rigging, which means she might have fallen—

 

“I’ve got a regenerator, wait—” Jo digs through her bag, pulling out the battered-but-functioning handheld.

 

Clearly, Iktar is worried, because he doesn’t tell her to stay behind despite her limitations as a captive, nodding sharply and gesturing for her to follow instead.

 

Jo smells an opportunity.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Green blood seems into the stone as T’Sirni screams, eyes wild and teeth bared as she scrabbles at her bondmate’s shoulders, pinned to the wall with every ounce of strength he can muster.

 

“There she is, Kusak!” she screeches in his ear. “Is she as pretty now as you thought last night? Tell me the truth, tell me the truth!”

 

What the actual hell, Jo thinks as she shoulders past Iktar to kneel by T’Opasa’s side. This is not how Vulcans behave. This is not how any _ remotely  _ sane person behaves.

 

There’s a glint of metal jutting out from T’Opasa’s side— a knife. A knife to the heart.

 

Jo’s dinky little regenerator isn’t going to fix that.

 

“What’s wrong with her?” Iktar demands.

 

“I— I think she’s lost too much blood!” Jo covers the blade with her hand, twisting and pulling it out with a sharp tug. T’Opasa doesn’t move. Of course she doesn’t move. “Iktar, I think she’s _ dead—” _

 

“Move!” He shoves her to the side, careless of the blood as he jerks the regenerator out of Jo’s hand and turns it on, pressing it to her side. The others come rushing in as Jo scuttles back, slipping the knife into her sports bra as she goes.

 

There’s shouting, mostly in Vulcan, as T’Sirni is dragged away by Kusak and two of the others who Jo doesn’t know the names of. The rest surround Iktar and T’Opasa’s body, one moving to check her pulse while another begins to administer CPR.

 

It’s too late, Jo thinks dimly. And it’s absolutely awful.

 

She’s thankful, anyway.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Twenty-five minutes until landing.” Midge’s voice crackles through the comm system. “We’ll be using the Cargo Bay doors to disembark.”

 

Leonard looks at Spock, giving him a small, humorless smile.

 

“That’s our cue, I think,” he says.

 

“Yes,” Spock agrees. “Would you give me a moment?”

 

Leonard nods, and Spock turns away, bending over to reach into his bag. A moment later, he straightens, and—

 

And he has two phasers in his hand.

 

“They are set to stun, Doctor,” he says, holding one out. “No one will be harmed, if it is necessary to shoot.”

 

Leonard stares at him.

 

“Spock, I… I can’t,” he says. “I took an oath.”

 

“I understand that,” Spock says. “But what do you intend to do, should there be an altercation?”

 

Leonard… Leonard realizes he hadn’t actually thought about it.

 

“I want to know what the situation is before I run in guns blazing,” Leonard says, glaring at him. “If there aren’t any weapons there already, these will only make them worse.”

 

“Then we will only reveal them if we must.” Spock presses the phaser into Leonard’s hands. “Please, Doctor— for my own peace of mind.”

 

Leonard feels his fingers wrap around the weapon before he can come to a decision— because, of course, Spock’s right. Jo hadn’t mentioned anything about a ransom, or a treasure. She might be exactly as expendable as Leonard fears she is.

 

“Come,” Spock says, eyebrow twitching when their fingers brush. “We may watch our descent on the Bay viewscreen.”

 

The thought makes Leonard’s stomach turn, but he nods anyway, pocketing the phaser as he moves to follow him.

 

He is suddenly, absolutely terrified.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The temple is a product of thousands of years of natural erosion that just so happened to carve a great big hole just under the peak of the mountain. Now, Jo has no idea how nobody ever figured out the temple was there— after all, there’s a great big hole in the roof of it that gives a rather lovely view of the sky— but she supposes it doesn’t matter right now.

 

The knife presses uncomfortably against the soft flesh of her breast, pinched by the gear keeping her suspended high above the temple floor. She’s not wearing the most supportive of her sports bra collection, but it’s doing a fine job of hiding the only weapon she has from a very watchful group of people. They must be starting to let their guard down around her— thirty-six days have past, and she has yet to be anything but curious, cooperative, and a little bit oblivious.

 

Hah. Suckers.

 

Convincing Iktar of the importance of the carvings circling the inner edges of the natural skylight had taken some doing, but she’d managed it, with, of course, the caveat that she have an assistant with her while she hung from the ceiling and worked. An assistant, she learned long ago, usually just meant ‘guard’ when said by less than honest people.

 

Well, she’s made her peace with what she needs to do. She’d even felt a little bit better about it when she’d realized who’d been chosen to watch over her while she worked.

 

T’Sirni. The murderous girlfriend. Wonderful.

 

Jo spends about two hours pretending she’s absolutely taken by the craftsmanship of the designs, blathering on and on about the importance of right angles in pre-Surak art and the representation of history through protoscriptive spirals… she does it so well, she almost believes herself. T’Sirni most certainly does, at least, tuning her out in favor of her PADD.

 

Jo sees her chance. Still speaking, she reaches under her shirt, grasping the hilt poking out of the bottom of her bra and pulling the knife free, ignoring the sting when she accidentally slits her own skin.

 

Years of digging through rock and stone and frozen earth have made Jo strong. She chooses the rope she means to cut quickly enough, and with one, swift cut, T’Sirni drops, a strangled scream tearing from her lips as she falls.

 

Jo has maybe seconds. Without another thought, she swings herself forward, hissing excitedly when she catches herself on the lip of the opening. Pulling herself over the edge, she cuts herself free from the web of safety ropes and starts running.

 

That’s about the same moment that she sees the ship overhead.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Midge isn’t an idiot. Obviously, there’s something going on when she’s looking for a place to land and sees a redheaded Human leaping across rocks and waving her arms at Midge’s ship. Considering the whole reason Midge is here, it’s a pretty safe bet to assume that there’s probably only one redheaded Human in the area, and that Human is Jo.

 

Who is running. Which means she’s being chased.

 

Midge dives and doesn’t think about it.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The phaser feels like a weight in Leonard’s pocket. He doesn’t want it, but he’ll probably need it. Leonard doesn’t get lucky the way Jim usually does.

 

Every time he shifts, he can feel Spock’s shoulder brushing up against his. Despite the bench they’re occupying being large enough to fit the entire bridge crew quite comfortably, 

 

There is a strange, buzzing sort of sensation in his head, sort of like he’s chewing on an electric toothbrush. It’s making him anxious, the buzz— he’s starting to wonder if he’s maybe had some kind of stroke, or something.

 

But no, that’s not possible. In fact, if Leonard is being perfectly honest, he hasn’t slept as well as he has since leaving the Enterprise in… years, maybe? A decade? Either way, as well-rested as he feels, he couldn’t have possibly had a stroke, is the point. There’s no need to be nervous.

 

(He’ll be running tests on himself the moment Jo’s safe, he knows, because something is most definitely _ different,  _ and he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that at all.)

 

Spock’s not as calm as he seems, which is the only thing that’s kept Leonard from snapping at him since they took their places in the Cargo Bay. He doesn’t even need to look at his face, focusing instead on the rhythmic press of Spock’s fingertips against the perfectly pressed fabric of his non-regulation red-orange pants.

 

For a Vulcan, that qualifies as fidgeting. Leonard appreciates it.

 

Sighing, Leonard straightens, reaching into his pocket to draw out the phaser. He checks the settings, reminding himself that yes, it is on stun, but unlike the first six times he’s looked, he doesn’t immediately put it back in his pocket. Instead, he cradles it in his palms and sighs.

 

(Jim looks out at the stars and sees progress, exploration, adventure. All Leonard has really been able to count on since leaving his home planet is violence.)

 

Spock shifts, his body turning just slightly in Leonard’s direction.

 

“Doctor,” he starts. “I have something I wish to speak to you about.”

 

Leonard opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Midge’s voice crackles through the comms.

 

“I see Jo,” she says. “I’m going for it.”

 

The ship drops suddenly, and it’s only Spock’s reflexes that save Leonard from smashing against the Cargo Bay doors when the nose of the ship tilts forward, the doors opening like the mouth of a beast as they fall, the rusty red of the rocky Vulcan mountainside rushing towards them.

 

Leonard can’t find the breath to scream as his back collides with Spock’s chest. Spock’s arm snakes around his chest and locks, his other arm wrapped around a free-standing railing as they plummet out of the sky.

 

Leonard’s hand— only the one, because the other for some reason is still clenched around the phaser, which is of absolutely no use to him in this situation— reaches up to find something to hold onto. He finds Spock’s bare wrist, and maybe he shouldn’t, but he can’t think over the terror—

 

His fingers wrap themselves around Spock’s wrist. Leonard hears a sound like a lion’s roar, feels its reverberations in his spine, and then… then the ship rights itself.

 

Leonard has exactly one moment to be relieved before there’s a sharp pain in his chest, and then, the world goes black.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The ship dives, the lower doors hissing open, and Jo knows it’s Midge, because Midge is _ crazy,  _ and definitely doesn’t think too hard about what might happen if she doesn’t pull out of that dive in time.

 

Jo looks behind her. There’s no one chasing her, so she stops, catches her breath, and turns. Midge is still diving, barrelling towards the rocks like a hungry metal dragon, and Jo realizes that she doesn’t plan on landing.

 

“Fuck,” she mutters, slumping forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,  _ fuck…” _

 

Still swearing, she drops into a runner’s crouch just as the ship pulls sharply up again, its belly horizontal with the ground, aiming straight for her. Taking a deep, steadying breath— oh _ God, _ this is such a bad plan, she’s going to _ die, _ Midge, what even goes through your  _ head— _

 

She starts running. The ship is slowing down, but not by a lot. It’s going to hurt a _ lot  _ if she doesn’t make it over the lower lip of the door.

 

Lord Almighty, it’s coming up fast. Barely a foot off the ground, though, and that’s good. It’s still going to hurt, though. Her father won’t be pleased. Is he even there? Did Midge manage to find him?

 

Jo jumps. The world goes dark terrifyingly quickly as the sun overhead disappears in favor of metal and glass. It confuses her enough she forgets to watch her feet, and is rewarded with the feeling of her face slamming against a dirty iron grate.

 

There’s the hiss of the doors shutting behind her, and then, there’s silence.

 

Gasping, Jo pushes herself onto her back, winded. Her cheek is throbbing, and there’s the telltale wet trickles of warmth rolling down her face that tell her she’s probably bleeding. But there are no bones broken, she thinks, and no Vulcans to speak of.

 

A head appears in her line of sight, and oh, it seems she spoke too soon.

 

“Joanna McCoy,” the Vulcan says, his face comfortingly stern. “I am Commander Spock, of the  _ USS Enterprise.” _

 

Jo swallows.

 

“Holy shit,” she says, ignoring the sting in her face as she smiles up at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Commander. Is my dad onboard?”

 

“He is.” Commander Spock watches her for a moment, then moves to help her sit up, his touch lingering as he checks her for injuries.

 

Jo lets him. She’s more focused on getting her breath back and maybe not crying.

 

“Where is he?” she croaks. She might not be winning the fight against tears.

 

“Currently unconscious,” Spock informs her. “I believe he accidentally triggered his phaser and stunned himself while Miss Midge was in the midst of her more creative maneuvers. Otherwise, he is perfectly healthy.”

 

The giggle comes naturally, because of course her father would shoot himself with his own service weapon by mistake, but unfortunately, the humor is what breaks the camel’s back; Jo blinks, and suddenly, she’s crying.

 

“Oh,” she says. “I really wanted a hug.”

 

Spock pauses, arching an eyebrow, and the next thing Jo knows, her face is pressed into a Vulcan-orange over-robe that smells vaguely like Chanel No. 5. It’s… weird. She’s never smelled a Vulcan before.

 

Though that’s probably not what she should be taking away from this. After all, she’s never gotten a hug from a Vulcan before, either, let alone the Vulcan her father’s been grumbling about for years and also for some reason decided to bring along on a rescue attempt. 

 

(Smart thinking, on his part, considering he just stunned himself.)

 

“We should probably get him to the infirmary, if this ship’s got one,” Jo says into his chest.

 

“Indeed.” Spock doesn’t move. “I am glad to see you are safe, Jo. Your father was concerned.”

 

“Yeah, he does that.” She sighs. “I’m in a lot of trouble.”

 

“I would hazard to agree with you, Jo. Tell me: do you think you can stand?”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Leonard dreams of cool desert nights and lavender fabric that smells like the whispers of Terran perfume. He dreams of I’Chaya’s shaggy fur and the sedately pleased shine of his milky, sightless eyes every time Leonard reaches out with the hands of a much smaller, much more delicate child than he’s ever been and scratches at the space between his soft, rounded ears.

 

This is not his life. This is Spock’s life. Obviously. Leonard has never owned a sehlat, for one, and for another he wasn’t a nail-biter.

 

Leonard doesn’t know how long it’s been, exactly, but he’s gotten over the panic, the anger, the annoyance, and the curiosity that followed him for the first fifty or so reels. Now, he’s mostly focused on other things— on Jo, and whether or not Midge’s falcon impression successfully managed to snatch up his daughter.

 

He would really appreciate waking up to his daughter safe and sound. Then he can go back to worrying about normal things, like keeping Jim out of trouble. 

 

At least he gets paid to live with _ that  _ particular stress.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Leonard wakes up to a nose full of wild red hair. Jo, warm and alive and safely tucked into the crook of his elbow, is staring intently at her comm, fingers flying as she types out messages and sends them in rapid fire.

 

Sighing, he reaches up to wrap an arm around her waist.

 

“A little old for this sort of thing, aren’t you?” he mutters.

 

Jo freezes, halfway through a text.

 

“And you’re a lot old to be taking a phaser blast to the chest,” she says, looking up. “How in the hell did you manage that?”

 

Phaser blast? Oh, God, Leonard thinks, Jim will never let him live it down. “It was in my hand when Midge started playing Red Baron— I must have squeezed too hard.”

 

Jo hums, moving to squeeze him tightly around the shoulders before rolling off the bed onto the floor. Leonard shifts, grunting as the thin skin over his sternum pulses unhappily at the stretch. They’re in the sleeping quarters of Midge’s ship, he realizes. More interestingly, Spock appears to be sound asleep in his pallet, apparently unbothered by Jo’s presence even when she leans back against the edge of his cot.

 

Leonard should probably talk to the guy, and soon. For now, though, all his questions are for Jo.

 

“What happened?” he asks. Her face, he realizes, looks like it got bashed in by something. Her entire cheek is steadily going purple, littered with a dozen little cuts that have only scabbed over.

 

Jo has a gift for storytelling, just like her mother. It makes her a magnificent liar, though most of the time, Leonard can tell the difference.

 

She’s not lying now. Leonard feels his eyebrows climb up into his hairline as she talks, humor and sarcasm failing in the face of a hard mouth and unhappy eyes.

 

“I killed someone,” she says finally. “Well, I cut the ropes. Gravity killed them. But I cut the ropes, so I did. That’s… not great.”

 

“... No, it’s not.” That’s years of therapy, right there, Leonard thinks. “Are you okay?”

 

Jo swallows, running a hand through filthy red hair.

 

“No,” she says. “I got kidnapped by an anti-Surak cult and my dad and his commanding officer had to come pick me up. I’m probably on the hook for murder—”

 

“I’d argue self-defense.”

 

“— but on the bright side, I probably know more about Vulcan protoscriptives than any living being in the universe.” She pauses. “Barring, of course, the potential existence of an omniscient being. So that’s good for my research, at least.”

 

Leonard snorts.

 

“That’s the spirit, kid.” Leonard reaches out, patting her weakly on the shoulder. “Think positive.”

 

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Jo glances over her shoulder, where Spock still seems to be sleeping quite peacefully despite their conversation. She turns back to her father.

 

“He’s fine,” she says. “Worried about you, though. I think he’s anxiety-napping.”

 

“Vulcans don’t get anxious.” Except they do. Leonard knows they do.

 

“I call bullshit on that one, Doc.” Jo grins at him. “He’s really nice, you know?”

 

“You think?”

 

“He gave me a hug.” She leans forward. “He told me he was  _ glad  _ that I was safe.”

 

Leonard blinks.

 

“He didn’t.”

 

“He used the word ‘glad,’” Jo says. Her smile turns mischievous. “Are you corrupting your Vulcan boyfriend, Daddy?”

 

“You know, that is the second time someone’s called him that to my face,” Leonard says. “The first one being Midge. I’m not— we’re not— he’s my colleague, Joanna Bird McCoy.”

 

Jo rolls her eyes.

 

“Daddy, it’s so obvious it  _ hurts,” _ she says. “Except for right now, he literally wouldn’t stop touching you. He likes you, Daddy, a lot— and you must like him too, if you can stand to sleep this close.”

 

Leonard grimaces.

 

“We’re friends, maybe.” He shifts. “If you count this whole fiasco as a bonding experience.”

 

“No maybe, Daddy, he likes you,” Jo says. “Why would he teach you Vulcan if he didn’t like you?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“You were sleep-talking,” Jo says, rolling her eyes. “In _ Vulcan.” _

 

Leonard is quite certain he doesn’t speak a word of Vulcan. He also knows he’s been dreaming of Spock’s childhood for however long he’s been out.

 

Speaking of.

 

“How long have I been asleep?”

 

“About an hour.” Jo shrugs. “Midge is taking us back to Seleya— hopefully, my team hasn’t found someone to replace me yet. We should be landing in twenty minutes or so, I think.”

 

Oh, thank God. Leonard wants to get off this tin can of a ship yesterday.

 

“In that case, help me up,” Leonard says. “This old man needs to use the restroom.”

 

It says something that Jo doesn’t make some kind of a joke as she pulls him up to his feet, and Leonard’s probably going to have to deal with it sooner rather than later, but for right now, he’s alright with going to the bathroom. Maybe he’ll even be ambitious and aim for a fresh set of clothes.

 

Taking one last look at Spock, Leonard decides the interrogation can wait until they’re on solid ground again. For now, though, the man needs his rest.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Jo is swarmed almost the moment they land, disappearing into a throng of Vulcans dressed in sunshine yellow jumpsuits and teal robes.

 

The men in teal, according to Spock, are the local police force. Jo had never officially resigned, and apparently, one of her team members had declared her missing.

 

Leonard is going to send that man a fruit basket, if only for saving them the hassle of doing it themselves.

 

He watches as Jo lets herself be hustled away, Midge trailing behind, and finally lets himself relax. After a moment, Spock joins him, hands clasped behind his back and communicator clipped to his belt.

 

“You called Jim.” It’s a statement, not a question. Still, Spock nods.

 

“I did. The Enterprise will be arriving in fifty-five-point-eighty-three hours to collect us.” Spock pauses. “You will be explaining the finer details of our sudden departure to the Captain.”

 

Leonard snorts.

 

“Well, I figured as much,” he says. “That’s fine. Jim’ll understand.”

 

“He will,” Spock agrees. “After all, we did put in formal leave requests, both of which were approved.”

 

Leonard hums. The benefits of being friends with your boss. Yes, he gets them into situations that should end in their violent and painful deaths, but hey, he’s got a connection for whenever he wants to take some vacation time.

 

God, he could use a drink.

 

“You know, Spock,” he starts, because they may as well have this conversation sooner rather than later. “I had some pretty interesting dreams while I was unconscious.”

 

He looks over just in time to see Spock go stiff— well, stiffer.

 

“I believe a bond has begun forming between us, due to multiple occasions of skin-to-skin contact.” Spock looks over, expression wary. “It is still in its infancy, and simple to break, if you so desire.”

 

If _ Leonard  _ so desires, huh? Now that’s an interesting thing to say.

 

“What’s it mean?” Leonard asks. “The bond, I mean.”

 

“It can mean many things,” Spock says. “But that is dependent on how the bond develops. At its core, however, the implication is that our minds are… compatible, in some way.” He faces forward again. “As I said, it is a simple thing to break, at this point in time.”

 

“And if you don’t break it?”

 

Spock swallows.

 

“Likely, it will grow stronger,” he says. “What that means, only time will tell.”

 

Spock won’t meet his eyes as he speaks, intent on some point in the distance. Leonard can’t help but think of Jo and Midge, and their opinions on Spock’s interest in him.

 

“Do you mind it being there?” he asks.  _ That  _ gets a reaction— Spock’s eyes are sharp when they meet his, surprised, even. “What? It takes two to tango, right? What’s your opinion on this?”

 

Spock hesitates.

 

“I do not mind a connection with you, Doctor,” he says. “But I understand the consequences of leaving it. You do not.”

 

Leonard hums thoughtfully.

 

“It sounds like I should be educated, then,” he says after a moment. “Before I go making any rash, uninformed decisions.”

 

Spock’s eyebrow ticks up, and Leonard feels a little proud to have sent the man reeling.

 

“I think we should leave it alone, for now,” Leonard continues. “Just until I know a little bit more about the subject. Is that alright?”

 

Spock seems to struggle for a moment.

 

“That is perfectly acceptable, Doctor,” he says finally. “... Preferable, even.”

 

And we have a winner. Spock likes him enough to share some Vulcan voodoo with him? For a guy as private as Spock is, that’s practically a marriage proposal.

 

Somehow, that doesn’t make Leonard want to run for the hills. Instead, he rocks backward on his heels, boots digging into the sand underfoot.

 

“If that’s the case, then I’m thinking you can call me Leonard,” he says after a moment. “Or Leo, if you prefer.”

 

Spock dips his chin.

 

“Thank you… Leonard.”

 

Leonard grins, swaying until he can bump his shoulder against Spock’s.

 

“Jo says you hugged her,” he says. “I’m disappointed to have missed that.”

 

“She was in distress— it was only logical.”

 

“Sure it was.” A thought strikes him then, one that must make it to his face, judging by the cautious tilt that forms at the corner of Spock’s mouth. “So if we’ve got this bond, does that mean I qualify for hugs, too?”

 

The strangest tickle forms just behind Leonard’s eyes, and suddenly, he knows that Spock is fighting the urge to roll his eyes. In fact, he’s so distracted by this realization— and the genuine good humor that seems to accompany it— that he’s almost startled when Spock reaches out to sling an arm around his shoulders.

 

“Only when no one is watching,” Spock says. “It is… improper.”

 

Leonard looks around. Most of the dig team is distracted, busy with Jo’s sudden and blessed return.

 

He looks up, meeting Spock’s eyes with his own. Then, he wraps an arm around Spock’s middle and squeezes.

 

“I suppose I can live with that,” he says, leaning into Spock’s side just slightly. “On the condition that you keep my little mishap with the phaser to yourself. Jim’ll never let me live it down.”

 

Spock ducks his head, the tip of his nose just barely brushing Leonard’s ear.

 

“Not on your life,” he says, pulling away with the smallest of smiles.

 

Leonard finds that, for once, he’s too stunned to argue with him, caught between the shock of Terran syntax and the frustrated realization that no one— not even Jim— is going to believe him when he says he saw Spock smile.

 

And Spock knows it too, that clever bastard. That’s why he did it.

 

“You,” Leonard says, wagging a finger at him. “Are going to be the death of me. You, Jo, and Jim— you’re going to put me in an early grave.”

 

“I, on the other hand, am quite certain you will outlive us all, Leonard,” Spock says, straightening. Though he’s smoothed out his expression once more, there’s still a hint of good humor in his eyes. “These last few days aside, I believe you may very well be the only one out of all of us with an ounce of common sense.”

 

That’s close enough to a compliment that Leonard feels his cheeks go red. He looks away, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“And don’t you forget it,” he says. “Damnable Vulcan.”

 

He doesn’t mean it, though, and this time, Spock is certain of it, too, judging by the way he nudges his shoulder companionably against Leonard’s.

 

“We have a few days to ourselves,” he says. “In the meantime, what do you say to dinner?”

 

Spock’s asking him out. Spock’s asking him out, and the butterflies in Leonard’s stomach have erupted into flight for the first time in over a decade.

 

“I could eat,” he says, because he’s not sixteen anymore, for God’s sake. “But first, I think we both need a shower.”

 

Spock nods.

 

“I believe there is a tent down the way with the proper facilities,” he says. “Would you walk with me, Doctor?”

 

Oh, _Lord._ Leonard’s always been a sucker for gentlemanly manners. It’s just so… sweet.

 

“I’d like that very much, Spock, thank you.”

 

In another world, perhaps Spock would have offered his arm. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he walks with him shoulders brushing with every step.

 

Somehow, it's still pretty great.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to do any fancy html stuff, but here's the art:
> 
> https://animetrashmuffin.tumblr.com/post/185551403403/i-had-the-absolute-pleasure-of-working-with
> 
> Isn't it wonderful?


End file.
